


Asleep in the Back

by thedeadparrot



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-05
Updated: 2008-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asleep in the Back

**Author's Note:**

> gen post-series, pre-movie Roy fic. Contains: pretentiousness, snow. Lacks: coherency, capitalization.

they demote him to corporal and take away his silver watch. that's the first thing. the next thing they do is reassign him. but it's his choice, they say. he can go where he wants. they need someone up north, however, they hint, a border post. he can't make trouble, can't kill high ranking military officials in the middle of nowhere. he takes it, doesn't really have it in him to care, and he leaves without saying goodbye to anyone.

it's easier that way.

he's alone, for the most part, these days, except for the supplies that come in every two weeks. sometimes, he gets mail, but he usually rips the envelopes into small pieces and throws them into the fire without ever reading who they're from.

it is his job to stand outside, stand guard, though he never sees much of anything. there will be no attack. his superiors know this. he knows this. but he still stands outside, waiting.

the north is harsh and empty and cold, and roy thinks that might say something about himself, but he doesn't think about those sorts of things any more, so it doesn't really matter. it isn't that bad, though. there are quiet days, when the wind is silent and the clouds are so white the horizon disappears where the snow meets the sky.

his hands are always cold, because he refuses to wear gloves, and he pulls a hood over his head to keep icicles from forming in his hair.

he remembers hearing that the ishbali believed that hell was full of flames, remembers the power in a snap of the fingers, and realizes that this is an appropriate hell for him, in ice and wind and snow. an appropriate punishment for his crimes.

the days are short and the nights are long, but he does not get any sense of peace from either. the food tastes like sawdust, and the matches he uses to light the fire like to slip between his frozen fingers, and clatter onto the floor. it is becoming harder and harder to rip the envelopes, harder and harder to let the fire consume them. there is something that twists in him, restless, right next to the yawning emptiness at the pit of stomach, that is beginning to grow, that is beginning to take on a life of its own.

he realizes that he is waiting.

for what, he does not know.

 

FIN.


End file.
